Old and New
by Bluefire Eternal
Summary: ExN Modern day retelling of Eragon. In a modern Alagaesia under the reign of King Galbatorix, magic doesn't exist. Nor did elves or dwarfs or dragons. But if dragons didn't exist, then why was one lying on Eragon's floor?
1. Prelude: Ambush in the Darkness

**Yep, a new fic. And let me tell you, I've read Eragon fics where Eragon and Saphira are sucked into our world, where people of our world are sucked into theirs, and fics where characters are put in modern day locations and situations. Yet I have never come across a story where the true events of Eragon (or at least an altered version of them) are played out in a modern day setting. Well, I'm going to attempt it now. (If someone has already done a story like this, I apologize. I have just never come across it and hence assumed that I was the first one to think of this.)**

**Time Line: Roughly one thousand years after the Fall of the Dragon Riders instead of one hundred. This would put it in a modern day setting instead of a medieval one. That means Galby and Brom are _really, really _old.**

**Pairings: EragonxNasuada (what can I say, I always liked this one more than ExA) with maybe some SaphiraxThorn or SaphiraxGreeni**

**Disclaimer: I do not own _the Inheritance Cycle. _All original material, including original characters and locations, belong to me.**

It was far past midnight yet nowhere close to sunrise, an ungodly time meant only for the nocturnal animals and their nightly routines. Every sane person in the Empire was fast asleep, the lights in the windows darkened and the doors tightly shut and securely latched. This was the thieves' hour, the drunkards' hour, the slatterns' hour. After all, it was natural for such a dark time to have such dark lurkers.

As the cities of Alagaesia slept, the outcasts of society haunting the dangerous streets and alleys, three of a different kind of night-walker traveled silently across the land. Three silver horses walked about the edge of a great and wild forest, moving so quietly they appeared to be phantoms, merely a trick of the eye caused by the moonlight shining through the shadowy trees.

Upon the ghostly steeds were three equally ethereal riders. There were like something out of a dream, with their tall and graceful figures, unnatural pointed ears, and slanted eyes that gleamed like cat's eyes. Two were male, one female. All were tense, hands on the hilts of their swords or on their quivers, ready to whip them out the moment they sensed something was amiss. **(1.)**

The female rider was young, or at least she looked young. There was a somber air about her, like that of an old veteran that had faced countless horrors of war and had long since been hardened to the acts of cruelty that occurred every day. Her brilliant emerald eyes had a timeless shine to them, as if they were as ancient as the trees surrounding them and as new as the spring leaves that were just beginning to unfurl from their branches. Her hair was as black as a raven's wing, as deep an ebony as the night sky _used _to be.

Arya looked up again, a soft sigh escaping her lips. The deep black sky, with the brilliant pinpoints of light dotting its pelt, was no longer. The black sky was more of a hazy gray, though it was hardly close to dawn. Hardly any of the stars were visible, drowned out by the suffocating light that emanated from the Empire's cities even in the middle of the night. Even here, hundreds of miles away from civilisation, the world still bore the taint of modern day technology **(2.)**.

"How disheartening," Arya whispered, commenting on the sight above her head. "It seems as if even the stars dwindle as our hope diminishes."

Faolin, her black-haired and blue-eyed companion, nodded grimly. "Aye, Princess, it would seem so." He sighed. "It is something like this that makes me long for the sky of my youth. Back then the sky was blacker than your hair and the stars more numerous than all the trees in Du Weldenvarden."

The eldest of the party, Glenwing, a male with hair like starlight and hard green eyes, shook his head. "You are hardly older than the Princess, Faolin. When you were born the taint of man already discolored the sky even then. Such skies now only belong in the visions of the past, of memories that are fading even for our kind."

Arya scowled at her unwanted name, but remained silent. She gazed at the object that sat in her lap, securely held in place by her hand. Her other rested on the hilt of her blade. She needed no hands to guide her horse, it had traveled this path many times over and was much more intelligent than the ordinary beasts the humans owned.

A small smile crossed her face as she gazed at the object. Even now, after being its guardian for seventeen years, she considered it beautiful. It was only a foot across, perfectly round and without flaws. Its surface was a brilliant sapphire, streaked with fine white lines. To the eyes of the ignorant, this precious object was nothing more than a finely polished stone. To those that knew better, this was a powerful object that would make its possessor one of the most powerful individuals in all of Alagaesia.

A dragon's egg, one of only three left. And not just any dragon's egg at that, but the one that held the last female dragon, the last hope for her kind.

_Isn't it ironic, little one? _Arya thought at the infant inside the egg. _The humans of the Empire believe us, elves and dragons, to be only myths. Yet their King hunts the both of us, as we are the only ones who threaten his position._

The she-dragon inside the egg didn't respond, her half-formed mind still locked in its eternal slumber. Though many years had passed since her liberation from the Mad King, she still had not chosen a Rider. Considering how Galbatorix's power by the day, it was imperative that a new Dragon Rider be made as soon as possible. Which was why the egg was being sent away back to the Varden. If it had not found a Rider amongst the elves last year, then perhaps it would accept one in the Varden this year.

Arya's rumination was interrupted when her horse came to a halt on its own. The two other steads that flanked her mount also stopped on their own accord. Glenwing and Faolin unsheathed their swords, alert for any signs of danger.

"We are here, Princess," Glenwing said brusquely. "You may teleport the egg now."

The elf-woman's green eyes widened in mild surprise. "We have reached the location? So soon?"

Faolin nodded grimly. "Aye, my Lady. Ceunon's population swelled last year **(3.)**. We cannot get any closer to their new borders without risking detection by Galbatorix's forces."

_As if this teleportation spell wasn't hard enough already, _Arya grumbled to herself, _now we must put more distance between the egg and the spot! _Despite how exasperated she was with having to constantly increase the distances on her spells, the young elf gave no hint to her displeasure other than a frustrated sigh.

Setting both hands on the blue dragon's egg, she closed her eyes and concentrated on the spell, tuning all else out. Teleportation spells were easy to mess up, especially if there was a great distance between the object to be teleported and the target. Extreme effort must be taken to ensure the egg reached it's proper location. Though Arya had never seen the target herself, she was easily able to summon up the mental image of where she was to send the egg. It was a small clearing close to the town where the next guardian was. He would be able to safely retrieve it without running the risk of being discovered by Imperial soldiers or ordinary citizens there.

In the ancient language, Arya began to chant the words of the enchantment, careful to keep the memory of her target firmly held in her mind.

Suddenly, her horse snorted, dancing around nervously. Arya ceased her spell, looking up in agitation to see what all the fuss was about. Her mount's ears were pricked up, its rolling eyes locked on a shadowy part of the forest. The other horses were doing the same, their keen senses detecting a threat their riders couldn't.

Faolin and Glenwing strung arrows onto their quivers, also turning to watch the spot that aggravated the horses so. Arya kept her attention on the egg, ready to teleport it the moment she saw genuine danger with her own eyes.

"Could it be Imperial forces?" Faolin murmured to Glenwing. "Rumor has it that an elite band of soldiers are being led by the shade that once tracked us."

"Impossible," the silver-haired elf whispered back. "Shades would never agree to work with mere humans. The horses must have been frightened by a predator of some-"

Glenwing's last words were drowned out by the sudden eruption of gunfire. Losing it, the horses reared and pranced about in fright, whinnying shrilly while bullets rained down from all around them. Faolin and Glenwing shouted at one another, struggling to calm their mounts while looking wildly about for the source of the chaos.

Arya gasped sharply when the shower of bullets began to attack her. They stopped in midair, feet from herself or the silver horse the rode, falling limply to the ground because of the wards that protected them both. While safe for the time being, each deflected bullet depleted Arya's energy. Under the unrelenting torrent of gunfire, she was forced to end most of her enchantments, lest all her energy be ripped out of her.

Just when her wards failed, so did the others. Bugling in agony and fright, the horses collapsed to the earth as tattered heaps of red and silver. Faolin and Glenwing were shouting, but Arya wasn't focusing on them. All her immediate concerns were for the dragon's egg, the last hope of liberation. If it was not safely delivered to the next guardian, then all the rebellion had striven for would be forever lost.

Leaping from the saddle, Arya jumped away from her mount the moment gunfire hit it, fleeing away in the opposite direction. Her heart ached at abandoning Glenwing and her lover, Faolin, to the ambushers, but it was not their lives nor her own that mattered in this situation. When they had sworn to transport the egg around Alagaesia they had sworn to give their lives to protect it if need be. She now had to live up to those oaths, even at the cost of her own companions.

Arya ran blindly through the forest, swerving to avoid trees and ducking when branches came looming out of the gloom. She heard heavy footsteps behind her, the panting of the men that pursued their prey, and the occasional burst of gunfire.

Had she been fully rested, Arya could have easily outrun these men. But her energy stores were long since exhausted and it was all she could just to keep ahead of the hunters. If only she could get a small moment's rest, a brief opportunity to preform her spell...

The elf-woman suddenly turned in the blink of an eye, running full-speed in another direction. The men behind her struggled to copy her graceful maneuver. Most slipped on the dry leaves that littered the forest floor, crashing to the ground in an angry and cursing heap.

Panting heavily, Arya ran forward a bit more, finally coming to a halt behind the relative shelter of some trees. Clutching the egg tightly with both hands, the elf-woman shut her eyes, once again summoning up the image of that peaceful and secret clearing. Concentrating as hard as she could, she began to frantically murmur the words of the spell.

The words flowed from her mouth with unnatural speed, becoming one long phrase of complex magic. Still, the speed that had graced the young elf in her hour of need was not enough. Just as the last word parted her mouth, Arya tumbled back, great pain erupting from the back of her skull.

The last things she knew were a bright flare of intense emerald light and an enraged scream before darkness engulfed her.

* * *

The Imperial army was nigh invincible, winning virtually every battle it put its mind to. Rebellions were instantly quelled, pirate ships and mercenary ships alike blown to the bottom of the ocean in the blink of the eye, armies of rebels and rogues slaughtered in quick and decisive battles. Their tactics were cruel, their fighters merciless. Because of such strict conduct and heavy discipline, the Imperial army had kept the Empire alive and whole for more than a thousand years.

Within the armies were select bands, the cream of the crop, the best of the best. These were special men highly skilled in a certain branch of combat, whether in ancient magics like the mysterious Black Hand or in the art of bringing down the toughest of foes like the Fire Wolves **(4.)**.

The Fire Wolves, named so for their brutal but efficient ways in bringing the most dangerous prey to its knees, like the infamous wolf. They moved like a pack, using their sheer force and numbers to overwhelm their targets. While not magic-users themselves, they were privy to secrets that the majority of the Empire remained blissfully unaware of. The Fire Wolves were charged with bringing such rogues down.

Ohand Yates, though new to the Fire Wolves, was not a fool. This was not his first mission in dealing with elves nor would it be his last. However, many greenhorns had been present in tonight's assignment, those had been told of the existence of allegedly mythical creatures but had chosen not to believe it. Now, presented with undeniable evidence of the truth, the newbies were silent. They gawked at the pointed ears, of the silver hair of one of the males, too shocked to even speak.

The seasoned veterans exchanged amused glances and chuckles at this, recalling the times when they too had gaped at impossible sights. Ohand merely spat onto the ground, sneering in disgust at the greenhorns' surprise.

"Yeah," he said. "Elves are real. Get over it, as you men have bigger fish to fry. This was a capture mission, all targets were to be disabled and brought back to Urubaen. I don't know why, though. Elves here are real formidable creatures. You have a better chance of getting a rock to sing than getting one of these pointy-eared bastards to reveal any of their secrets. Consider this a lesson for the rare scenario in which you actually _capture _an elf."

One of the greenhorns tentatively spoke up. "So we usually don't deal with elves."

Ohand smiled humorlessly. "Oh, you'll deal with a bunch of them alright. While most hide away in their forest, it's not unusual for one or two of them to come sneak out and try to observe us humans. When we are assigned to get elves, it almost always is to _kill _elves. And when you shoot them, shoot them hard and shoot them quick. One cursed word out of their darling mouths and you'll find yourselves dead. Be lucky these males were too thick to use their wretched magic."

"But if elves can't be successfully interrogated, then why are we capturing these two?"

Ohand turned in the direction in which the sole female elf of the group had disappeared. Durza, the leader of the Fire Wolves, emerged from the dark undergrowth, dragging the limp form of the elf-woman behind him.

Durza was a shade, hundreds or maybe even thousands of years older than any of the men present. **(5.) **He dressed in all black all the time, making his pale skin even paler and giving him the appearance of a ghastly ghoul. His hair was an inky black, though even the newbies of the Fire Wolves knew that the color was artificial. It truly was crimson, far too conspicuous for stalking the more elusive of prey. However, no amount of trickery or sorcery could disguise Durza's maroon eyes. They were twin fires that burned holes into your very soul.

Ohand smirked, noting the fearsome glare upon Durza's hellish features and the noticeable absence of the strange blue stone that they had been charged to recover. Tonight's assignment had obviously been a failure.

Turning to address the curious newbie, he replied, "Because our fearless leader lost the object of interest and will have to torture its location out of our freakish friends here."

**1. Why do the elves carry such obsolete weapons? 'Cause they're elves. Can you imagine such a proud and stubborn race consenting to use technology their greatest enemy invented. Besides, they have magic. Unless they are ambushed, they're capable of defending themselves in most situations.**

**2. Electricity exists in modern Alagaesia. Light pollution lightens the darkness, as in our heroes can no longer hide under the convenient cover of darkness with as much success, especially if they're flying.**

**3. Little villages no longer exists. Cities like Ceunon are constantly having to expand to make room for growing populations.**

**4. I created the Fire Wolves as an elite band of fighters. Since the Black Hand is too valuable to use in ordinary combat, elite soldiers that are plain humans are used in most situations in which magic-users or 'mythical creatures' are involved. They are also some of the few chosen to bear the knowledge of the existence of magic and other sentient races. Yes, the Fire Wolves have replaced Urgals 'cause Urgals are too conspicuous :P.**

**5. In the books, Durza presumably came into being around the time of the Fall, which in canon would have made him over a hundred. Here, he's over a thousand years old. He's the one in charge of hounding the elves and leading the Fire Wolves.**


	2. Adventure Fell From the Sky

**Disclaimer: _The Inheritance Cycle _does not belong to me. However, all original material including original characters and plot-twists, do belong to me.**

_"The beginning is the most important part of the work" -**Plato**_

_"....and then Saphira opened her mouth and unleashed a plume of brilliantly blue flame. Morb could only stare on in shock. His dragon, the littlest and youngest of the dragons, had just breathed fire." _There was a rustling of paper as the papers were sorted back into their proper order. Jolly blue eyes peered inquisitively over spectacles, hungry for an outsider's opinion. "Well?" he asked, prodding at his one-man audience. "What do you think of it so far?"

His listener shrugged helplessly, struggling to find a response that would satisfy the old author's **(1.)** insatiable curiosity that would not alienate him forever at the same time. "It was good.... but a little typical for a children's book."

"Oh?" A silver brow arched, the blue eyes sparkling impishly. "And what do you mean by 'typical'?"

"Um." Seventeen-year-old Eragon Brodin **(2.)**desperately searched for a respectable explanation. Brom Holcombssen looked on, the smile hidden underneath his silver beard growing with every hesitating moment. "I... don't know how to explain it."

Brom sighed, shaking his head in bemusement. "Of course you know how to explain it, boy. You always do. Gods know everyone in Carvahall have seen you when you want to speak your mind about something. Even the wiliest of politicians would have difficulty trying to answer your questions and turn you against your reasoning. Don't be afraid to tell me of your opinions, Eragon. You and your relatives are all close friends of the family." He winked. "It would take much more than a poor review of my latest book for you to be banned from my presence."

Brom's words were true: the Brodin family had been close with the old author since his moving to Carvahall seventeen years ago. Even now, Brom was considered a newcomer to many townsfolk, whose ancestors had lived in Palancar Valley for countless generations. Besides, why would a renowned author want to live in an obscure mining town such as Carvahall? His natural elusiveness to his small cottage on the outskirts of town had not helped his poor relationships with locals.

Aunt Marian, the resolute woman she was, had not been discouraged by Brom's hermit habits. She had thought of befriending the author as a challenge and when her husband Garrow had attempted to dissuade her she had simply said, "Brom writes books. Books are good for Roran's education and imagination. Especially free books. Besides, don't you want to be able to brag about being friends with a famous author?"

So Aunt Marian had been careful to include Brom in her family as often as possible. When she made dinner she always made sure to make an extra plate for their author friend. Ocassionally he was invited over to dinner but often Garrow, and later Roran and Eragon, had often walked over to his house to personally deliver the food.

In return Brom had given the Brodin children free copies of his kid's books. While Roran had mildly appreciated the free literature, Eragon had become hooked on them the moment he was old enough to begin to learn how to read. Taught by old Brom, he was reading small chaptered stories when students in his class were just beginning to form words out of letters. Garrow had always said that his nephew had latched onto Brom, seeing the kindly man as the father he had never had.

Even now, when Eragon was a senior in high school and Roran had gone on to community college, ties between the Brodin and Holcombssen households remained as tight as ever. When Aunt Marian had passed a few years back, Garrow had been unwilling to allow the old traditions and friendships to die along with her. Though the widower and his two teenage 'sons' often ate takeout for dinner, he always remembered to order enough for Brom.

Eragon had been delivering the latest offering of takeout from Sloan's Place (the only takeout restaurant in Carvahall) when Brom had cornered him with a chapter of his newest work, _The Sapphire Saga: The Burning. The Sapphire Saga_, which focused on a young blue she-dragon named Saphira and her Rider Morb, was Eragon's personal favorite of all of Brom's books. He had loved the early books of the series when he was a youth, and still offered helpful output on the latest installments. But recently Eragon had noticed a decline in the writing quality of the books, one even Brom noticed and was powerless to stop.

"Well," Eragon began reluctantly. "It seems a bit cliche. Not at all like the earlier books."

Brom gave a humorless laugh. "Tell me about it, boy. King Galbatorix's increasing bans on all fantasy books, especially ones concerning dragons, severely limit my artistic talents." He snorted. "Our beloved ruler thinks it is best for the Empire's youth to concentrate on their studies rather than drown themselves in unrealistic dreams and fantasies."

The younger man scoffed. "Like any of that crap matters in Carvahall. All of us either end up working in the mines or move away to slave away in one of Therinsford's factories."

"Watch your language," Brom reprimanded automatically. "Besides, Eragon, not everyone in Carvahall is destined to become miners. Look at your cousin Roran. He's on his way to becoming a carpenter. If you put your mind to it you could become-"

"Anything you want to be. Would you stop saying that to me? Both you and I know that's not true if you grow up in a mining town."

Old Brom gave a wan smile. "You know me, I'm the stereotypical father figure out of my own books, cheesy sagacity and wisdom included." He quickly became serious, his blue eyes losing their playful twinkle. "But know that your destiny is not set in stone, Eragon. Your entire future could be altered by one little twist of fate."

Eragon opened his mouth, no doubt to spit out a retort, but Brom was quicker. Moving with remarkable speed, the author jumped out of his chair, forced Eragon's backpack into his arms and guided the bewildered student out the door. "Now, now, Eragon, enough wasting your time on an ominous old man such as me. Go out and live your life like a normal teenager." And, without further explanation, the door to Brom's small cottage was promptly shut in Eragon's puzzled face.

Eragon stood there for a moment, utterly speechless. Had _Brom, _kind, old _Brom, _just kicked him out of his house? The high school student did not waste too much time on his disbelief. Brom was an eccentric man, no doubt a tad senile in his rather respectable old age. This just must have been one of the moments where his irrational side had gotten ahold of him.

Slinging his backpack over his shoulder, Eragon turned around and began the walk to his favorite place.

* * *

It was a Friday afternoon in early autumn. School was done for the week and the weather was still nice enough for most outdoor activities. Most of the students from Palancar Valley High School had begun an immediate celebration of their two glorious days of freedom by rushing out with their friends for an afternoon by the Anora River or by driving their cars to Therinsford, which offered more entertainment for the young crowd than Carvahall did.

But not Eragon Brodin. His best and only friend, Nasuada Hounsou **(3.) **lived in Therinsford. Her unusually strict father required her to return home immediately after school, no exceptions. And Eragon had to preform the ancient tradition of delivering Sloan's Place takeout to old Brom on his walk home from school. With Uncle Garrow working in the mines 'til sundown and Roran still at the community college in Therinsford, Eragon was unwilling to return home to an empty house.

So, seeking a quiet calmness, he headed off to the only place within walking distance of his hometown that provided such a solace. The Spine. While Carvahall and Therinsford had built mines into the mountain range, all were on the outskirts of civilization. Despite the modern age, many locals had an instinctive fear of the Spine, ingrained into them from horror stories from their elders. Those that scoffed at the legends, as in greedy outsiders looking for a share of the ore mined from the mountains, either lost scouting parties to the wilderness or else had their mines fail miserably because of mysterious conditions.

While most of his classmates stayed clear of the Spine, Eragon was an exception. While they feared the wilderness's unnevering silence, he relished it. What they saw as a foreboding and cursed forest, he saw it as a refuge from the harsh reality he lived in.

Stepping into the Spine's heart was like stepping back in time, to a time before even the Empire itself and the rise of the Voskian **(4.)**royal line. When he was younger, Eragon had pretended to be a hunter in the woods, tracking a deer or searching for a missing comrade. Even now, so longer after those childhood forays into the imagination, the Spine had a magical air to it.

_If only these woods could take me back in time, _Eragon thought playfully to himself. _Or if a dragon's treasure hoard still rested in one of the mountain's caves. Or if an adventure suitable only for the ancient legends came to find me. But I don't suppose something like that would just fall right out of the-_

_BOOM!_

An eruption of emerald light sounded, as well as an incredible shock wave that followed it. Yelling surprise, Eragon dove for cover, hiding behind the trunk of an ancient tree. Eyes closed tightly, he prayed desperately to whatever god that might be listening for him to survive this strange explosion.

After what seemed like an eternity, the rush of energy ceased. The brilliant emerald light that penetrated even his eyelids stopped, leaving him with blessed darkness. Bird song and the general movement of animals had ceased, as if even they were stunned by the incredible event. Eragon just hid behind the tree trunk, struggling wildly to try and regain his bearings.

_What just happened? _he thought, putting a hand to his dazed head. _Did I survive that explosion.... Or am I a ghost of some sort?_

Examining himself, Eragon was relieved to discover he was not a ghost, phantom, spook or any being of the spectral sort. He was vastly unharmed, save for a few cuts and scratches from the splintered remains of the undergrowth that had blown past him. Knowing that he himself was all right, Eragon remained sheltered behind the tree, trying to come up with a logical explanation for the illogical event that had just occurred.

Had an explosion of natural gas trapped beneath the mountain had caused this? He doubted it. Any gas explosion would have probably left him dead, or what at least have toppled his tree right on top of him. Had a supernatural being had heard his wistful thoughts and had actually caused an adventure to fall right out of the sky? Eragon was neither devoutly spiritual nor bad enough for him to receive punishment in such an ironic sense.

_Could it have been a space rock? A metor that was sucked into the world's atmosphere and one that crashed just feet away from me? _It seemed like the most likely explanation, more feasibile than an impossible gas explosion and less spiritual than a divine sense of irony. Yes. It had to be a meteor. A small rock that had fallen from outer space. It couldn't have been anything else.

Peering out from behind his tree, Eragon's blue eyes widened in shock at the carnage all around him. The meteor's crash landing had completely desecrated this one little patch of previously green forest. Nothing but ash and the blackened remnants of tree stumps was left, most of it obliterated by the searing heat that had accompanied the space rock. Keeping a careful eye out for any harmful debris, the high school student cautiously ventured forward, searching for whatever remained of the meteor.

"Gods," Eragon breathed, catching a glimpse of blue out of the corner of his eye. Leaning down to get a closer look at the unknown object, he wiped the ash away from it, not caring whether he got the soot all over his school uniform. What he discovered made him gasp in awe.

It was a stone. A perfectly flawless stone no more than a foot long. Its polished sides were smoothed to perfection, but that was not the oddest feature about it. The supposed meteor was a brilliant blue, a hue deeper than even the sky above. It could have been a sapphire, except its surface was streaked with thin white lines. Besides, Eragon doubted this beautiful object could have been only a mere gemstone.

Was this blue stone a meteor? Eragon had seen meteors only as pictures in books. And all had been lumpy and brown, like just about any ordinary rock he could pull out of a mine. None of the photographed space rocks he had seen were as otherworldy as the one he gazed at.

Reaching out, Eragon cautiously tapped the stone with a finger. It wasn't warm at all. In fact, it was pleasantly cool, no hotter than a refreshing spring rain shower. What surprised him even more was the delicate ring that sounded when he tapped the stone's surface. It had almost sounded as if it were hallow.

Curious, he picked up the stone, holding it with both arms. The stone was oddly light. Lighter than any other stone its size should be. His suspicions were confirmed. The stone was hallow. There was no other reasonable explanation as to why it could have been so.

Eragon wondered what to do with the stone. Should he take it to Brom, the smartest man he knew, for identification? Or should he just take it to the nearest junk shop and pawn it off for all the crowns he could get from selling it?

Smiling softly, Eragon tucked the stone into his backpack, taking great care to stow it away in a safe place. Turning around, he began the long walk back to Carvahall.

He knew exactly what he was he going to do with it.

**A virtual cookie to anyone who can guess where the modern last names of Eragon Brodin, Brom Holcombssen, Nasuada Hounsou and Galbatorix Voskian came from. Hint: check out the histories of each character. (And the background from behind the movie, in one of the cases.)**

**Next chapter: We meet (or at least hear) Nasuada for the first time. And, after a thousand years of slumber, Saphira finally gets her lazy ass into gear and hatches at last.**

**1. Brom is an author of children's books. Not only is this an appropiate profession for the modern age, but he can also pass on the hidden truth of the past under the pretext of writing children's stories. His answer for basing most of his stories (_Sapphire Saga _included) on the supposedly mythical Dragon Riders: he took a bunch of obscure old legends and made them kid-friendly.**

**2. Eragon is seventeen. Not only does it make him older and more disillusioned for a modern world, but a modern fifteen year old doesn't have the same independence and rights one from the medieval age had.**

**3. Nasuada is a student at Palancar Valley High School and best and only friend of Eragon Brodin. The explanation for her prescence will be later explained.**

**4. The Voskian line is the official ruling family of the Empire. Officially, Galbatorix the I founded the line along with the Empire, and was succeeded by a number of Kings also named Galbatorix, up until the most recent one. Unofficially? Well, knowing a Dragon Rider's longevity you can probably guess the rest.**


End file.
